[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=f9ad81]Foy Coiffeur[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]https://snippetstudios.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/a-million-ways-to-die-in-the-west-640x350.png [/img][hr][b][color=f9ad81]Location:[/color][/b] Retribution, Conference Room [hr][/center]

	The Esteemed Mr. Coiffeur took the situation with more than an ounce of concern. Not only was social order disrupted, but threats were being flung about in an attempt to establish a new chain of command (or lack thereof). This was most undignified. Not boring, which was a tad refreshing, but definitely most undignified. Add to this the extremely low morale of his childhood friend, Jahosafat. Foy was classist, not heartless. Well, not completely, anyway. This is something that would have to be discussed in the manner of gentlemen: Privately, over decent liquor and cigars, without showing much in the way of emotion unless it could be utilized for dramatic effect. 

	One thing which put the generally spirited gentleman's mood to the demonstrably irritated was the fact that, the moment a bullet tore through Captain Quinn's body and brought about his swift, untimely end, Foy's contract in [i]extremely[/i] fuzzy circumstance. There was very little preventing him from exercising the skills he had honed for half of his lifetime (barbing notwithstanding) to reestablish a social order upon the vessel more to his liking. His thoughts dancing upon this concept for a moment, Foy scanned the faces of the remaining Alliance personnel within the conference room, looking for a glimmer that they might be thinking the same thing. He locked eyes with as many as he could, studying. Seeing who was waiting for a moment and who was going to fold like a pair of twos.  

	He kept a personable expression the entire time. 

	Within the confines of his own thoughts, he kept a running tally. [color=f9ad81][i]...Hmm... Myself (of course), Josie, our Engineer, Yeo-y #1, Yeo-y #2, our assassin Carla...[/i][/color] His brain hovered there for a moment. He and Miss Lobo had worked well together in the "Asset Elimination" business once upon a time. With a bit of teamwork, the two of them could clear out the seven interloping crew members. [color=f9ad81][i]...possibly medical? Didn't we have an additional med guy? Eh. Our gunner Williams, and Harper. Yes, quite...[/i][/color] 

	Tactically, they still held the advantage were they to make a move soon. Ship familiarity and the still locked away arsenal were assets in this undertaking. Provided that they were able to leave this room, one way or another. Foy gave one last smile and nod at Carla, and waited until their new "Captain" was finished speaking. Then he began to pursue an alternate possibility.  

	[color=f9ad81]"Indubitably, madame."[/color] began Foy, speaking to Anisa. [color=f9ad81]"I must concur with my cherished colleague on this caveat. This is not a Firefly vessel, quaint as the machine is. You shall require the assistance of these Alliance gentleman (though I utter the term loosely in part) to bring out her abilities. And what motivation have we to cheerfully carry out your commands? Loyalty and obedience are a sore things to wager upon when they are procured with intimidation."[/color]

	It was strange to Foy that one would be so transparent, thinking to recoup losses of crew and ship from among the people who had just let one board their vessel to escape certain death and dismemberment. A little premature, at the very least. That took amazing naivety or ironclad intestinal fortitude. [color=f9ad81]"As for myself, my contract with this noteworthy vessel's secondary endeavor was cut short with the sudden demise of our Captain. Now [i]depending[/i] upon how one reads said contract, I have either become a Free Agent, or my primary obligations pass on to the next ranking Alliance Officer on board; specifically the one with claim to take over for our departed Quinn."[/color]

	[color=f9ad81]"In simpler words, Captain; I find threats of violence give me frightful ennui. Convince me with other methods. Ah, but wherever are my manners? You are a guest still, I suppose, whatever our Reaver situation. Would you care for a wrapped candy?"[/color]


[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=008080]William Harper[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/ea/30/b7/ea30b7f41a28014c80fcec6eec87b910.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=teal]Location:[/color][/b] Retribution, Conference Room [hr][/center]

	The enigmatic Pilot kept quiet during the last pieces of verbal exchange. His words were for Anisa alone, unless a specific question were put to him. Even then, he planned to answer in a manner that would better secure his possibility for survival. To be quite honest, that's really all he had left.

	Harper briefly wondered if he had chosen the wrong life to take over. The wrong guy, wrong job, assignment, ship, etc. About a week ago he was a prisoner, tucked far away from civilization. And now, William Harper was trapped in a term of service with the Alliance Military, caught in a Black Ship, still tucked far away from civilization. Crewmembers of a black ship didn't exist, either. Except for a select few of the higher-ups elsewhere, no one even knew they existed. Good to see that nothing's changed for him. 

	He noticed that their barber was valiantly trying to broker a contract of some sort, probably for his own survival or to turn a profit in their swiftly changing circumstances. That didn't take very long.